


A Distant Love

by Hannibal_X_Will



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Historical, I'm Sorry, It Sucks, It may make you cry, Love, M/M, Past Lives, Reincarnation, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibal_X_Will/pseuds/Hannibal_X_Will
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handful of glimpses through the ages of Thorin and Bilbo in their different lives and struggle to find one another.</p><p>I apologise for the mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Distant Love

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic in this fandom but this idea came into my head and I couldn't shake it so...here you are.  
> I hope you like it :)

85 AD

Bilbo first saw him again in Ancient Rome, the colossus shadow of the Colosseum bearing down upon him. He was stripped bare, his tall, muscular form covered with filth, his skin bruised and bloody. His hands were manacled before him, a thick leather collar around his neck. Standing hunched, his long dark hair hung in a matted curtain, obscuring his face. 

Yet, something drew Bilbo to him. He slowly weaved his way through the crowded market towards where the slaves were being sold. The broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his hair, the fierce line of his jaw...all those things seemed so familiar to Bilbo. His fingers tingled as if they were remembering a touch long forgotten. His heart was filled with a hollow ache so bottomless that he feared it would rise up and swallow him whole. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, metallic and salty. His eyes burned with a thousand tiny pinpricks. 

He knew the man, though he had never seen him before in his life. 

Other Romans were milling around the slaves, inspecting them as if they were a horse, checking their condition with rough hands, forcing their mouths open so they could see their teeth and the like.

Bilbo could hear none of the bustling activity going on about him as he stopped before the dark-haired slave, there was a rushing deep in his ears which drowned everything else out. The man really was tall, the top of Bilbo’s head just reaching his chin. His stomach gave a flip and something tugged at the edge of his mind. A memory he did not know he possessed itched at him but he could not see it clearly.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo lifted his hand. It trembled violently as he reached towards the man who was looking down at him through his dirty mane of hair now. Bilbo froze as their eyes met, his hand hung forgotten in midair. Those eyes...they were the clearest blue he had ever seen and filled with such pain and anger. An invisible knife pierced Bilbo’s heart and he swallowed hard.

”It’s...it’s alright,” he stammered, his voice sounding far away, “No further harm will come to you now.” 

The man with the haunted blue eyes tilted his head slightly to one side, observing Bilbo. Something flickered across his face, something his thick beard could not hide. What little colour there was in his face drained away and his eyes widened in disbelief. 

“Bilbo?” 

Bilbo knew that voice, he would have known it anyway, in any life.

“Thorin.”

*****************************************************************

1250, Medieval England

The second time Bilbo found him was in Medieval England. He was on his foot with everybody else, cheering and clapping his hands as the two knights bowed low to the King and Queen. Their armour glinted in the sunlight, the chainmail gleaming like the scales of a silver fish. 

The knight closest to Bilbo straightened up, fitting his shield onto his left arm. His coat of arms - a mighty oak tree set on a royal blue background – caught Bilbo’s eye and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The knight was already wearing his helmet so he couldn’t see his face but Bilbo already knew what he looked it.

Both the knights mounted their horses and the crowd around Bilbo erupted into fresh excitement. The stamping of feet and the clapping of hands vibrated through Bilbo who suddenly had forgotten how to move.

The knight reined in his eager steed, the massive black horse snorting and pouring at the loose earth impatiently. 

The trumpet was blown and the crowd roared. Both knights kicked their horses and the beasts lurched forwards in a pounding of hooves and the wild kicking-up of soil.

The breath caught in Bilbo’s throat as his knight rushed towards his opponent, lance dipping down, aiming true. The top slammed into the other knight’s breastplate, knocking him clean off his horse with a mighty crunch of armour. The lance splinted, pierces of wood exploded into the air and the crowd cheered, even the King was smiling. 

His knight dropped what remained of his broken lance and pulled on his horse’s reins. His steed reared up on his hind legs and the crowd whooped. A smile tugged at Bilbo’s mouth and he felt a blush warm his cheeks.

His knight nudged his horse into a steady trot past the crowd until he paused in front of Bilbo behind the barrier. From his sleeve he pulled out his token, a blue handkerchief embroidered with his coat of arms. Every lady in the crowd gasped and the one beside Bilbo pressed her hand over her heart and swayed as if she was about to faint. 

Leaning down from his horse, he held out his token to Bilbo. A hush fell over the crowd as Bilbo nervously reaching out and took it. The knight straightened up and pulled off his helmet. His tousled dark hair was cut shorter than it had before and his beard was merely stubble, but his blue eyes were still the same, so intense Bilbo felt like the very ocean was washing over him. 

“I am at your service, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, his voice rich and deep, the sweetest music to Bilbo’s ears. 

“And I am at yours, Thorin Oakenshield, in this life and the next.” 

*******************************************************************************

1620

The Mayflower creaked and groaned beneath Thorin’s feet as he ran up the length of the slippery deck. Overhead, the heavens were black, the clouds rolling and heavy with rain. Thunder crashed and lightning forked across the sky, momentarily illuminating chaos that gripped the ship. Sailors struggled to remain upright as the waves they rode swelled and broke. Rain drenched the wooden deck and soaked the rigging. The main sail snapped back and forth like a broken bird’s wing in the clawing wind. 

“Bring down the main sail!” Thorin bellowed, grapping for the robe as it slipped out of a sailor’s numb fingers. 

He was half dragged across the deck as he heaved with all his strength on robe, desperately trying to pull up the main sail. If it broke then they could all bid farewell to the hopes of finding the New World. They would die out here, in the middle of an unknown ocean, miles from their new home and even further from the one that no longer wanted them.

The robe was biting into Thorin’s hands, tearing the skin and eating at the flesh. Rain pounded down upon his head and shoulders, seeping through his clothes to chill his bones. His grip was loosening, the robe now slippery with his blood as well as water beginning to wriggle out of his hands. It felt like his arms were being ripped from their sockets yet still he held on, gritting his teeth and digging in his heels.

The Mayflower crested a towering wave, the bow pointing towards the sky for a tantalising second before gravity caught hold. The ship crashed down, salty water jetted up along its sides, cascading down upon the deck. The sea water was icy cold, lashing at Thorin’s back like the tongue of a punishing whip. He roared in pain. His foot slipped and he stumbled, the robe cut through his hands. 

“No!” 

He lunged blindly for it, just catching hold of the very end. The huge sail above him jerked, threatening to fully unfurl. Thorin couldn’t hold on, he wasn’t strong enough, his body so numb, the storm too fierce.

Just as the robe began to slide between his hands a figure appeared at his side. A second pair of hands seized hold of the robe above his and a familiar body pressed against his side.

The ship crashed and groaned. Lightning split across the sky and Thorin saw his face in flash of white light, his curly hair plastered to his head and face screwed up in determination. 

“Together?” Bilbo shouted over the mayhem of the storm. Thorin nodded, tightening his hold on the rope one final time, Bilbo’s presence giving him the strength he needed. 

“On the count of three. One, two, three!” 

They both pulled on the robe with all their might and the sail above their heads rolled up and Thorin rushed to tie it in place. Bilbo collapsed against him, breathing hard. Lifting his trembling, bleeding hands, Thorin pushed Bilbo’s drenched hair out of his eyes. 

“I told you,” Bilbo panted, “you can’t do this without me.” 

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin replied, pulling Bilbo into his arms and kissing him hard.

*******************************************************************************

1917, Western Front, France

When he had enlisted Bilbo hadn’t imagined it would be like this. He had thought war was meant to be exciting, an adventure filled with glory and heroism. But there was nothing glorious about the mile after mile of stinking water-logged trenches that made up this war. And there was nothing heroic about sleeping among the rats and fighting among the slowly rotting bodies of your fallen friends.

It was close to midnight and all was quiet on the front. Bilbo slowly scouted the line, checking for any gaps in the wire fence, any signs of an enemy raiding party. He knew he was exposed here, out in the open, but he couldn’t stand another moment down in that trench. That’s why he had volunteered for the night patrol. In the distance, miles down the line he could just hear the sound of explosions. Last night that had been them, the German’s had shelled them for five hours straight, they had lost a lot of good men.

Pausing by what remained of a dead tree, its bark blackened and limbs shattered, Bilbo looked up at the sky. No matter what changed on Earth, how much they destroyed the land, the sky always remained the same. There were no clouds tonight to hide the brilliance of the heavens. The countless stars blinked down at Bilbo as he leaned against the tree, propping his rifle up against it. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. 

It was cold, the temperate below zero and Bilbo’s numb fingers fumbled with the lighter. He swore as he dropped it into the mud. He was about to crouched down and retrieve it when he heard the squelch of approaching footsteps.

Instantly alert, Bilbo snatched up his rifle and raised it. He narrowed his eyes, straining his ears but the footsteps had stopped. Had he imagined it? Was he finally going as mad as he felt?

Feeling unnerved, Bilbo stayed perfectly still, waiting for something – anything – to move. He sensed the presence behind him more than heard it and he whipped around, aiming his rifle at the figure’s heart.

For a moment all he saw was the uniform and the enemy it branded him as but something deep inside held him back from pulling the trigger. The German was tall, his face cast in shadow by the spiked helmet he wore. His own rifle was slung over one shoulder and his coat was missing most of its buttons. 

Bilbo swallowed hard, his mouth bone dry. His heart was hammering against his ribs and the rifle shook in his hands. The German reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a small box of matches. Bilbo became aware he still held his unlit cigarette between his lips. 

The German struck the match and the tiny flame hissed into life. The dancing light illuminated his face and Bilbo instantly lowered his gun. Thorin smiled, though it was a bitter smile, filled with sadness. Bilbo too felt his own heart break as he saw yet again the uniform that marked Thorin as the man he was meant to kill.

Thorin held out the burning match to Bilbo who after a brief moment of hesitation stepped forwards. He wrapped one hand around Thorin’s wrist and cupped the other over the dwindling flame as he angled the cigarette in his mouth. Thorin’s free hand came up and touched Bilbo’s cheek, his familiar long fingers stroking the corner of his mouth. Bilbo drew in his breath shakily, drawing with it the tobacco. Thorin dropped the match as the flame singed his finger tips. 

“The pipe suited you better,” Thorin said, his voice still the same yet different, his German accent distorting it slightly. Bilbo exhaled the smoke from his lungs and shook his head sadly. 

“We cannot do this, not this time.” 

Thorin nodded at his words, knowing them to be true. 

“At least we know there will always be the next time.” 

Tears stung Bilbo’s eyes, “Yes, but you are always taken from me too soon.” 

Thorin’s blue eyes reflected the starlight like steel as he stepped close to Bilbo, his arms encircling him. 

“Perhaps the time is not yet right.” 

Bilbo looked up into the face of the man he loved, the man he had found and lost repeatedly more times than he could count. 

“When will it ever be right?” Both of Thorin’s hands came up and cupped Bilbo’s face and he whispered, “When it is the last time.” 

Bilbo pressed himself into Thorin’s larger body, wishing they could somehow merge into one being. 

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” he breathed, the tears slipping down his cheeks, “this...distance...it’s no way to love someone.” 

Before Thorin could reply the shell fell from the sky and landed a foot away from where they stood. Neither of them saw or heard it, but both of them died from it.

*******************************************************************************

1945, Poland

Through all his past lives if there was one thing Thorin had learned above all about mankind was its capacity for evil, yet even he had never witnessed evil quiet as he was now.

The camp had been abandoned by the SS days before, leaving behind its inhabitants to die. The tall fences topped with barbed wire glinted in the sunlight, icicles hanging from the metal. The snow underfoot was knee deep, the cold was biting that Thorin was wearing three pairs of gloves and still he couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how frozen the poor souls he could just make out inside the camp must be.  
Behind him in the shelter of the trees his small band of men huddled together for warmth, they had come across the camp on their patrol and radioed it in to HQ, now they were waiting for instructions. 

Thorin wanted nothing more than to help those trapped into the camp but he had been ordered to wait, but then again, patience had never been a trait of his and that wasn’t about to change. 

“I’m gonna get a closer look,” he told his men over his shoulder and before any of them could object he was wadding down the hillside through the snow.  
When he was within throwing distance of the front gate he felt it, the pull in his chest, the invisible length of string that connected him to Bilbo tightening. He was here, in the camp. 

Suddenly forgetting all about his orders, Thorin ran the last few metres to the gate. Pulling his gun from his belt, Thorin aimed it at the padlock on the gate and pulled the trigger. The gunshot split the air like a knife and the padlock broke open. Thorin tore the gate open like a wild animal and flew inside. 

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouted at the top of his lungs, sprinting through the camp, passed the wooden huts, some left untouched others smouldering wreckage. 

There was movement from all sides and figures barely resembling human beings crept out of their hiding places. The people were so close to death Thorin did not know how they were still alive. The faces were sunken and bodies so skinny it was as if their skin had become transparent and their bones glinted threw.  
Thorin struggled to a halt, gapping in disbelief at the many pleading faces. Rage and hatred for the men who had done this burned through his veins like liquid fire. He imagined what he must look like to them, a foreign soldier, and understood their wariness. 

“It’s alright,” he reassured the gathering crowd, “I’m here to help. Soon you will be free of this place. The hell you have suffered ends now, it is over.” 

They glanced at one another, some whispering. 

“Please,” Thorin begged, “I’m looking for someone, a man named Bilbo, please, where is he? I know he’s here.” 

What if he was already too late? What if Bilbo was already dead?

Then, from behind him, a tiny voice reached his ears. 

“T-Thorin?” 

Spinning around, Thorin cried out in anguish at the sight of Bilbo. He didn’t recall moving his feet but suddenly he was in front of Bilbo and catching the exhausted man in his arms as he crumbled to the frozen ground. Bilbo felt as light as a feather in his lap, his skin stretched tight over bone and skin an unhealthy grey colour. His curls had been shaved off and his eyes dimmed with suffering but it was him, his Bilbo.

“Oh Bilbo,” Thorin sobbed, the tears spilling from his eyes, “I’m sorry I’m so sorry. I didn’t find you soon enough!” 

“Shh,” Bilbo whispered, lifting a skeletal hand and touching Thorin’s cheek, “It’s not your fault.”

Thorin caught hold of bilbo’s thin hand, kissing the scarred palm desperately and holding it to his face.

“After last time at the trenches...and the bomb...I thought that was it, that last time, that last chance.”

Bilbo coughed violently, blood peppering Thorin’s coat.

“May-maybe it would have been better if it had been,” Bilbo wheezed. 

Thorin sobbed, wrapped Bilbo up in his arms and burying his face in the side of his neck.

Bilbo slipped his trembling hand into the back of Thorin’s thick, dark hair, stroking weakly.

”Don’t go, Bilbo,” Thorin begged, lifting his face and staring into the smaller man’s face, “Not again. I’ve only just found you in this life.”

Bilbo grimaced as pain lanced through his body. “I-I’m sorry, Thorin, but it is my turn to leave you first.”

“No,” Thorin sobbed, leaning down and kissing Bilbo, that taste of his blood filling his mouth, “no, no, please!” 

Bilbo’s last breath ratted from his chest, “Till next time, my love.” 

*******************************************************************************

Modern Day

The Christmas market was buzzing with life, the smell of sugar and wine was heavy in the air and the sound of children playing and adults chatting drowned out the usual noise of traffic that filled the city. 

Thorin ducked under a string of low handing lights and felt a rare smile tug at the corner of his lips. He had never cared much for Christmas, or rather, the ones he had spent without Bilbo by his side, but he couldn’t deny the air of magic that surrounded him.

It was cold with the first hint of snow darkening the clouds overhead. Thorin shivered as the wind blew into his face and he tightened the blue scarf he wore around his neck and buried his hands into the pockets of his long black coat.

He paused beside the huge Christmas tree, looking up at the glowing golden star that sat pride of place on top. A little girl was standing a few feet away from Thorin staring up at the tree too. Something about her caught Thorin’s eye. She was cute with curly blonde hair and deep chocolate brown eyes, but it was her features that made Thorin’s heart contract. As he stared, the little girl began to look around wildly, panic filling her eyes. 

“Daddy!” She began to cry, “daddy where are you?”

Thorin looked around too but no one came rushing at the little girl’s calls. Before he knew what he was doing, he moved towards her. 

“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, crouching down to her level and hoping he didn’t look scary, “have you lost your father?”

The little girl sniffed loudly, nodding her head. She wore a thick pink coat and white fluffy mittens. Her cute button noise was red from the cold and she bit her bottom lip nervously.

“When did you last see him?” Thorin asked gently.

“I...we were at the chocolate stall...then I saw the tree and –“

“- Freya!” 

Someone shouted and the little girl peered around Thorin. She must have seen her father for her face lit up with relief and. Thorin straightened up, the familiar sensation opening up in his stomach. He knew before he even turned around who he was going to seeing jogging towards them.

Bilbo’s face was flushed, his eyes filled with concern for his daughter. Right then he only had eyes for her. Something inside of Thorin broke, maybe this time they weren’t meant to be together?

The little girl, Freya, darted around Thorin’s legs and threw herself into Bilbo’s arms. The short man hitched her up and held her tightly. 

“Oh, Freya, thank god! When I turned around and saw you were gone –“ Bilbo broke off, suddenly seeing Thorin standing there for the first time. His mouth opened then closed his eyes going wide. 

“Daddy?” his daughter said in a small, confused voice, “are you mad? I’m sorry I ran off, I just wanted to see the tree.” 

“No, no,” Bilbo said quickly, tearing his eyes from Thorin to kiss his daughter’s cheek, “I’m not mad, it’s just...” He trailed off again, his eyes flickering back to Thorin.

“It’s good to see you,” Thorin said, unsure of what else to say, “you look good.”

Bilbo blushed and Thorin smiled, happy to see Bilbo was still as humble as ever. 

“You...” Bilbo whispered, taking a step towards him, “You’re here...I thought – I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find you this time.”

“Looks to me like you already thought that,” Thorin said more harshly than he meant to, nodding to the little girl in his arms.

Bilbo stiffened slightly and he put his daughter down. 

“Her mother died,” he said bluntly, “it’s just us now.”

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said quickly, mentally kicking himself, “I didn’t mean...I meant to say that...”

“I know,” Bilbo said, taking his daughter’s hand in his, “Freya, this is Thorin Oakenshield, I’ve known him since...” he paused, looking at Thorin with all the past pain in his eyes, “it feels like forever.”

“Nice to meet you,” Freya said, half hiding behind her father’s leg.

“You too, sweetheart,” Thorin said, forcing a smile. 

“Do you – do you want to come see Santa with us?” she asked shyly.

Thorin glanced at Bilbo, asking permission, and not just to Freya’s invitation. It was different this time - he could feel it in his heart. There wasn’t room for selfishness this time, Bilbo had his daughter to think about. 

Bilbo looked back at Thorin for a long moment, his face torn. Then he said slightly breathlessly, “Yes, please come with us.”

Thorin relaxed and Bilbo held out his free hand to him. This time when Thorin took it he did not feel the clock begin to tick down to the moment one of them would die. The cruel had of fate had finally let them go.

“This time?” Bilbo asked quietly, leaning in close to Thorin.

Thorin tilted his head down so his lips just brushed Bilbo’s ear as he promised, “this time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ending sucks I know, I'm sorry,
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading. Please leave me a comment <3


End file.
